It is said that men think of sex every seven seconds.
Seven seconds? That’s a lot. Helluva a lot. It’s like they are thinking of sex more often than they blink. How can their mind be occupied with sex when they have zillions of other things to do?
Can’t be true, can it?
Maybe less. But men do certainly think of sex a lot.
I know. The way men look at me, checking me out when I’m not looking? What are they thinking of? How I would like look when I am naked? How it would be like to be having sex with me?
I don’t know about you, but I secretly enjoy being their center of attraction. If only you could see the way their girlfriend or wife glare at them.
It was nice been noticed. I enjoy that.
In the diner that evening with Mr A, I enjoyed the way his eyes rove too. Like most men, Mr A was either too shy or too polite to stare at my boobs blatantly.
I was wearing a pink cardigan sweater that revealed a generous amount of my cleavage. Yes, I have big boobs. Big ones. Not too humongous. Just pleasantly big enough to turn a lot of heads. I am proud of my boobs and not afraid to flaunt them. How many women have boobs, natural ones, big enough to flaunt? Not many.
At the diner, I was grateful to be treated with a hot meal by Mr A. I was famished, and the fish and chips were delicious. I avoided the chips. Didn’t want any unnecessary baggage to carry around. Not that I have any. I seem to have a high metabolism and do not gain weight easily. But I was still careful. I still avoid fried food.
While I was slicing another piece of the fish with my fork and knife, I could see his eyes rolling down to my cleavage. He didn’t know that I knew he was looking. Since he was nice to buy me dinner, he could look all he wanted. He could even touch them if he wanted to.